


Storm Front

by Severina



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Community: lands_of_magic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 10:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5704198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she had scratched off a fortnight on her calendar and there was still no sign of relief Belle began to fear that the storm would never end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storm Front

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's lands_of_magic community, for the prompt "Let It Snow"
> 
> * * *

Belle was tired. Tired of the wind rattling the window panes and seeping through the thick stone walls of the castle, nipping at her ankles and slithering beneath her shortened skirts. Tired of the gloom that no longer limited itself to shadowy corners but now permeated every room, hanging like a pall over her head as she struggled with even the simplest of chores. She found herself longing for one of the shawls hanging in the wardrobe back at her father's castle – even the lightest of them would at least help to cut the ever-present chill that raised goosebumps on her arms. Each night she curled up on the divan and tucked her feet beneath her in a vain attempt to stay warm, but her toes remained frozen despite the fire and her eyes strained to make out the words in her book until she finally gave up on reading altogether. 

Each day she stood for a time behind the long thick curtains that cloaked the windows and watched the wind lash the landscape and the snow pile up in heavy mounds. Her breath misted the air and fogged the glass. Finally she was unable to continue her vigil at the window because the snow had fallen so deeply that it covered the glass as high as her head, plunging the castle into another layer of darkness that candles could barely penetrate. The fire still crackled – Rumplestiltskin's magic at work – but its warmth failed to reach a foot beyond the hearth. Not even when she first came to the castle and still slept on a hard cot in a dungeon cell had she felt so forlorn, so lacking in hope.

When she had scratched off a fortnight on her calendar and there was still no sign of relief Belle began to fear that the storm would never end.

* * *

Rumplestiltskin was tired. Not that the Dark One needed sleep, oh no, but boredom was its own form of weariness, and spending endless days and nights in a clearing deep in the Broceliande forest performing hourly incantations with rare herbs over a particularly pungent yet undeniably enchanted fungus did tend to wear on one's nerves. Much easier if he could have simply plucked the blasted thing from the ground and done the chore back at his castle, but rules were rules – and magical rules, more than any other, could not be bent to his will. He was therefore greatly relieved when the damned mushroom finally blossomed and he could cautiously siphon the three small drops of elixir he required. He placed the thick, twisting liquid carefully into a vial; tucked the vial warily into his cloak. Even through the ensorcelled glass of the vial and several layers of clothing he could still feel the malignant force of the emulsion: coiling, prodding, looking for weaknesses, seeking a way to return to its source. Best to return quickly to his turret and add it to the potion so he could finish this wretched deal with the Duke and be done with it.

But though he fixed his tower rooms in his thoughts, it was the Great Room at the Dark Castle in which he found himself when the smoke of his magic cleared. Perhaps not so odd – the girl had been on his mind of late, with nothing to do for weeks but murmur hourly spells and scowl at a stubborn toadstool. Yes, he's certain that was the only reason why his mind turned frequently to thoughts of his latest acquisition, with her sparkling blue eyes and long chestnut hair and clever tongue. At any rate, it would be best to check on her before he disappeared again into his work.

Rumplestiltskin nodded to himself, then blinked when the darkness of the room registered. The table and chair that dominated the room were vague shapes in the gloom, his treasured keepsakes barely discernable even to his sharp eyes. Had the silly maid become so immersed in one of her books that she'd let the fire go out? But no, it still burned with his magic – the only source of brightness, a pinpoint of light in a room gone dark and chill. The mushroom's elixir twisted and squirmed in the pocket of his cloak, seeking escape; he needed to move at speed to place it in his potion before it lost its potency and his weeks of effort were for naught! But first he was left to deal with whatever nonsense his little maid had gotten up to in his absence.

"What have you done?" he muttered in irritation. 

He felt the cold no more than he had need of sleep, but the fog of his breath warned him finally that this was no fault of his young maid. He breathed out again, and narrowed his eyes. The cold of the high mountains lived in his castle. He scented the air and tasted Narcissa's deformed magic in the deep freeze.

The chill that could not reach his altered skin twisted suddenly in his heart, and his lips trembled. It took him longer than it should to speak her name.

"Belle?"

Movement stirred the air at the far end of the room, and he was there in the space of half a heartbeat as Belle pushed herself wearily to her feet, her fair skin wan and lifeless. One hand pushed aimlessly at the tangle of her hair.

"F…forgive me, Rumple," she said. She met his eyes confusedly. "I must have… have fallen asleep."

Her lips were blue!

She took a stumbling step toward him, mumbling something about his tea, and he caught himself in time to snatch at her arm before she went tumbling head first into the insufficient fire. "No matter," he soothed gently, leading her back to the divan. The skin beneath his fingers felt like ice, stiff and unyielding against his own, and he swore he heard the crackling of frost when he eased her amongst the cushions. A thought left her clothed in her coziest flannel nightgown, and another had the room warming – but slowly, slowly. Too much too soon would harm the circulation and damage her, perhaps even – no, he would not think of his lovely Belle scarred in such a way.

He quickly wrenched off his cloak and spread it over her prone form, then thought to conjure a blanket – a mass of blankets, and the sheepskin from his own bed – to place around her instead. He tossed the cloak unheeded into the corner, then perched carefully on the edge of the divan to tuck the thickest of the covers under her chin. 

"There now," he said softly, with a reassurance he did not feel. "You'll soon be set to rights."

Belle blinked up at him, her beautiful eyes still dull and faded. "Am I… unwell?"

"Just a little chill, my dear," Rumplestiltskin said, with as much false good cheer as he could muster. He wanted to seek out Narcissa immediately, rend the skin from her bones and warm his hands in her blood. If he had been but a few more hours! The consequences to Belle could have been—

His hands twisted in the coverlet, blackened nails scoring jagged tears in the fabric. He forced himself to calm, waved a hand over the material to mend the rips. He would get to Narcissa soon enough, make her pay thrice-fold for what she'd done. Now, Belle needed him. He held his breath before placing a palm against her cheek. It felt like plunging his hand into a snowbank. "We'll get you warmed up soon enough," he said.

"Strange," Belle murmured. "I don't _feel_ cold."

The words turned his heart to ice, and he risked raising the temperature in the room just a little more. But it was not until Belle began to shiver twenty minutes later that he felt the glacial tendrils of fear withdraw from his own fractured heart. And when she finally slept, he allowed his own eyes to slip closed.

The Dark One did not sleep. But that didn't mean he could not dream. 

He dreamt of a blonde warrior with a sword. A fire. A barren cell with a single barred window. A princess fit to burst with child. The dreams scurried around his head like a dog chasing its tail, and like the dog he could not catch them. 

"Rumple?"

Rumplestiltskin lifted his head, opened his eyes. Wan sunlight crept through the slivers in the drapes, and even through the solid stone walls he could hear the water dripping from the eaves as thick icicles melted into the lessening snow below. His last thought before resting had been to ease the storm that battered the castle walls, and now only large, fluffy flakes fell and the sun peeked from behind the clouds. 

He had lain his head against the sheep's wool blanket, and now his face was inches from Belle's. Her wide blue eyes, bright and aware now, watched him with something like amusement, and he became slowly aware that his cheek had been pillowed against her bosom; his fingers curled around a lock of her hair.

"Rumple, is everything—"

"Tea!" he announced brightly. In one lithe movement he was on his feet, his arm waving to bring the tea set to – well, there was nowhere to _put_ the tea set, so it hovered in the air until he quickly conjured a small oak table next to the divan. The sweet scent of chamomile and honey had Belle pushing herself into a sitting position, but she hesitated with her hand still reaching for the pot, glancing down at her nightgown clad arm in confusion. "Rumple, I don't…" She shook her head, bit at her bottom lip. "Have I been ill?"

"Just a little cold," Rumplestiltskin answered. "You'll be right as rain soon enough." 

"Yes…" she said hesitantly, her brow furrowed in thought. "There was a dreadful storm."

"Indeed," he agreed. No need to tell the girl of Narcissa, or of his exceedingly intricate plans for the witch. "Frightful. But here we have a roaring fire in the hearth, and a sheaf of books to hand, and nothing but time. It may snow all it likes while we're safe and warm, hmm?"

For a moment he thought she might protest, seek out answers to her missing memories of the night before. Ask why she had woken in her nightgown in the Great Room with a master sorcerer curled against her side. But in the end she simply nodded and poured the tea, first warming her hands around the cup and merely breathing in the calming aroma. The steam dampened her curls, brought a warmth and shine to cheeks that had been too pale only hours before.

Rumplestiltskin summoned a chair to appear before the divan, and when she caught him looking he took up a book randomly from the pile he'd earlier magicked from her room. A horrid little tale about simpering maidens and square-jawed princes, but he could pretend to be engrossed if it allowed him to stay by her side. Simply so he could ensure that she was completely out of danger, of course.

"Rumple?" Belle said. "I think something spilled from your cloak."

Rumplestiltskin followed her gaze to the shadowed corner where he had tossed his cloak the previous night, and the tiny vial – its contents long dissipated – that lay disregarded on the stone floor. "So it has," he said.

"Was it… was it important?"

Rumplestiltskin thought of the potion he was preparing for the Duke, and the trade he would make of it for a key that the Duke thought worthless. A key that could open an ornate egg which would, in time, hold a vial containing the truest and most pure magic of all. 

He would simply have to find another way to obtain the key, that was all. 

"No, dearie. Not at all," he answered. "Now drink your tea."


End file.
